The Leaping Warriors Final Duel

Long had they awaited this day, the time of their fated final duel. Across the follicle forests and fleshy plains, the two had battled for the Right to Prime Blood. For days, they leaped and kicked and speared at one another, neither able to pierce the other’s armor and inflict the decisive blow. They would fight until exhausted, retreat, and sup on the blood of their Great Host from less desirable wells.

Today, however, would be their final clash. Already, they felt the age in their joints. Their legs held less spring. Their armor plate felt a bit looser. Their tusks had dulled. Prime Blood thrummed through the Great Host right beneath their feet, the most delicious well to be had, stirring their hunger to near madness. But they were not the type to share. Only one could claim this well, and only might could determine that right. And their might was already failing in their age.

Even if neither could strike a true killing blow, they would strike and strike and strike, until one or both could no longer move, their life burned away in one last push to prove their dominance. Whoever could still move enough to pierce the skin of the well could die knowing they were the strongest.

If neither could manage the feat, they could be satisfied knowing that there was only one other who could be their equal. In a way, there would be a comfort in that, a companionship. If only such companionship could have been enjoyed in the sharing of a meal, rather than needing to deprive the other of one. If only they had met before finding this most cherished well, perhaps they could have…

But no. Such was not their way. Such was not their fate. They were what they were, and in the end, only the truly strongest deserved the Right. They tensed their legs, ready to spring. They rasped their claws along their great tusks, preparing the dull blades for a final stabbing. They gave one another a final bow of respect, and then—

And then, the Great Host dragged its claws through the patch. Neither warrior was fast enough to evade their Host’s wrath. This, too, was the risk of their way of life. To eek out a living on a world that by its very nature tried daily to destroy them.

The warriors tried to flee, but they were not fast enough. They leaped, but the Great Host’s claw caught them in the air, slashing with such speed and strength as the dash them clear away. The impact rattled and broke their insides, and they were tossed to the alien landscape of false follicles, too far away to see where each other landed.

A final duel, cut short before they could determine who was strongest. As the life fled from their bodies, they contented themselves with the idea that perhaps this was a sign. That the duel had been unnecessary, for they had proved time and again to be one another’s equal. Perhaps, then, this was a lesson. They should have put aside their pride and split the feed. Surely, the well held enough Prime Blood for them both to have enjoyed.

Ah, well. Perhaps, some day, their children, or their children’s children, would overcome the foolishness of their elders. Provided, of course, that the Great Host did not manage to scour them off itself.

The Great Host, meanwhile, shook itself after its vigorous scratching, and went to pester its own Great Hosts for a walk.

Bee-Box

Webfic Challenge: Write something off the cuff for 15 minutes. 

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The bee buzzed through the field, scanning for anything particularly interesting to inspect. Among the purple flowers, it saw the usual sources of pollen and nectar, but in the distance, beyond where its sight could usually stretch, it saw a deep red pulsing.

Ancient instincts stirred in its primitive nervous system. The pulse of light drew it in, a shade of crimson unlike any it had encountered before, were it able to remember. It alighted on the source of the glow, a plastic box that felt strange to its simple senses.

The box buzzed beneath it, a deep hum more felt than heard. In its mind, the bee felt a stirring. Something was forming, a notion, a thought, an idea beyond its simple desire for food and resources. Visions swam before its simple eyes, more complex than anything it had seen before. It had not the capacity to realize that what it saw was not truly there, but uncanny impulses in its mind.

It saw a distance it could not grasp. A field of endless darkness, broken by points of light, some clustered in strange spirals. It saw the growing illumination of one such source of light. As it neared, huge round shapes appeared from the darkness, streaked with all manner of colors, reflecting the shine of the ever growing light. And then, one such shape, blue and green and brown, streaked with white, loomed before it.

The vision continued forward, the new colorful sphere growing and growing as it came ever closer. Soon, it was so large that it engulfed the entire field of view. And as it neared, the darkness broken with specks of light faded away into a deep, glowing blue. Down and down the vision went, towards a patch of green. The color was solid at first, but become more complex as it neared, revealing specks of other colors. The vision flew fast, and the field overcame the vision entirely. The bee, in its limited awareness, understood that the vision had struck the ground.

For the briefest of moments, it was aware. It was aware of the box beyond being just a thing stuck to the ground. It was aware that the ground stretched far longer than it could have ever conceived, if it had even once thought about it. It was aware, suddenly, of what it was, and of the scale of its existence. Beneath it, the box hummed and glowed, and the bee felt itself begin to do something it had never done before. It began to remember…

And then, something cold and wet smacked into its back. Around it, small pattering sounds could be heard. Water. Falling. Rain. The bee flapped its wings in a panic and zipped into the air, knowing it had to find shelter. It would have to return to the… the what? Return? To the hive? No, not the hive, to something… red? Red… flower? Flower. Pollen. Food. No! Wet! Rain! Shelter! Then pollen, then… then it’s train of thought dissolved into the primitive instincts that had guided it and it’s hive all this time.

Behind it, the box’s hum faded to silence. Its glow died to nothing. All was still, save for the rain.

Runan and the Glass Desert

The desert’s pure white sands glinted harshly in the sun, the light broken only by the shadows of the occasional large rock or high dune.  As the sun continued its assent into the sky, however, these shadows were providing less and less relief.  The place reminded the traveler rather strongly of his old home, when one strayed too far from the shore; merely trade the sand and rocks for snow and ice, and the effect would be the same: endless white stretching to the horizon, where it met the endless blue.

The small figure, dressed in a ragged white traveler’s cloak, was beginning to consider stopping for the day.  He had already trudged a fair distance across the desert’s length and despite his uncanny resilience, the heat was beginning to take its toll.  It was a day’s travel since the last oasis, and he was beginning to get thirsty; already, his canteen was dangerously low.  Sheathing his short, wooden katana in the rope that served as a makeshift belt, the traveler unscrewed the cap off his canteen with the dexterous tip of his fin, and slipped his beak into the container.  He managed to sip a mouthful of water, and when he was done, only a few drops remained.  The figure contemplated that it might have been smarter to bring a larger vessel for water, but then, there was only so much he could carry.  It was difficult enough waddling across sand with just his sword, the cloak, and the canteen; overburdening himself with a pack would have made travel more difficult for himself.  Besides, hauling packs was mule’s work.  Emperor penguins were not built for such tasks.  And if worse came to worse, he could always attempt to divine a water source and summon a spring.  Assuming there any to be found in this Godforsaken place.

The penguin marched on, unsheathing his sword, and using it as a walking stick.  As he stepped forward, he suddenly sensed a shifting beneath his feet.  The penguin flipped back in a leap which carried him a dozen yards away, flipping his sword into a defensive stance, his cloak tossed to the side.  Before him, an enormous red form exploded from the sand, hissing and clattering as it rose from its hiding place.  The form of a dire scorpion, large as an elephant and red as blood, loomed over the small swordsman.